


54 - The Time John Decided To Utilize A Bus To End It All

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Groundhog Day (1993) Fusion, Bus, Day 54, Depressed John, Gen, POV John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Tired John, Walking Into Traffic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16534376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: Maybe a bus will work better than a gun at ending it all...





	54 - The Time John Decided To Utilize A Bus To End It All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quarto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarto/gifts).



> This is part of the multi-author, multi-chapter fic being written where John lives through his own personal "Groundhog's Day" type situation. Day 54 was asked for by **marcceh** with the prompt " _gun didn't work, but who cares? he steps in front of a bus this time_ "

There was no point to all of this, he was sure. No matter the changes he made, little or small, it always ended up the same: he woke up in the chair in the dingy flat with the limp and all that. The same thing, over and over and over and _over again_ , and even when he made a change, it made no difference. Eventually, he would be back in the chair, wake up with a start, as if the past few days or weeks or months or years had never happened.

Maybe this was his own personal purgatory. He’d made too many mistakes, the same ones and different ones, and his penance was to awake over and over again until he got it right. But he was tired, so... _tired_.

And it wasn’t a sort of tiredness that sleep could fix, either; it was a bone-deep or perhaps even soul-deep ache that nothing could fix. Not even death.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t give it a go, though. Maybe death wouldn’t be the end all/be all solution, but still, he’d get a respite before he woke up to do it all over again. Maybe. Possibly.

All of this thinking about the hellish situation he was in made his bloody head hurt.

And all that could just...go away, with one action.

At least for a time.

He thought about things for a bit. The gun didn’t leave much time in between death and waking up in the chair. Maybe it was too quick? Who knew...certainly not him. But maybe something that could lead to a coma where Harry would inevitably be asked to pull the plug? Like a car accident? But even though he knew by now (and had known, and would always know every time he woke up in the damnable chair) that the limp was psychosomatic, there was still the issue of him not having a car. If he couldn’t afford this dingy hole in the wall flat, a car was certainly not an option.

However...there was always the buses. Yes, it would leave a mess for those who were left but still. He’d be comatose or possibly dead. Didn’t matter to him if he snarled London traffic more than usual.

He left the cane in his flat because really, he _knew_ it was all in his head (and he rather hoped this was, this purgatory, but he wasn’t counting on it, not really) and made his way out. A brisk walk, walking with a purpose. Find the right time, the right place, the right intersection with a green light and a nice double-decker.

He walked for hours it seemed, or maybe minutes that just seemed like hours because psychosomatic or not, the pain was real. Or was it?

These thoughts were worse than the pain he’d feel when the bus hit him, he swore it to any holy being who hadn’t already forsaken him.

Finally, the moment was right. The light was green, no traffic around the bus, no stops he could see. Easy as one (walk to the corner).

Two (step into traffic).

Three (brace for impact).

And four (searing pain, then black, blissful black.)


End file.
